


that you may sound your presence to the heavens

by simplycarryon



Category: Pyre (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, RINGS SHIPBOARD BELL LOUDLY, mild late-game spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-12-10 08:58:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11688336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplycarryon/pseuds/simplycarryon
Summary: The Blackwagon acquires a horn, with which to ward off unnecessary collisions.





	that you may sound your presence to the heavens

**Author's Note:**

> my wagon got wings and I immediately crashed it into every single triumvirate in sight. my sincerest apologies to the Fate, who definitely deserved better.

The horn, Volfred explains with what might be a smile, is a necessary addition to the blackwagon. It is a courtesy to other airborne triumvirates; without it, midair collisions are nigh-unavoidable, and it would be a terrible shame to cause damage to another exile’s home or the long-preserved trinkets and baubles within.

He says this last bit with a pointed look in your direction.

You have the presence of mind to feel slightly ashamed, at least. Almer Oldheart’s incensed cries still echo in your ears.

The handle for the horn connects to a rope that disappears into the ceiling with the flight mechanisms, and you hear drive-imps chittering away in the rafters. Amused, you half-wonder if the horn is merely a rope tied around an imp to make it squeal whenever you pull the handle, but one quick tug puts your doubts to rest. The sound it emits is akin to a trod-upon water-bird, a plaintive squawk that rattles the rafters and makes those present jump.

Rukey, ears flattened against his head, promptly slaps the handle out of your hand.

“Easy on the noise there, sister! Some of us need our hearing!”

Ever one to tempt fate, you hook the curve of your cane around the handle and bring your full weight to bear in pulling it downwards, never once breaking eye contact with Rukey. His protests are drowned out by the squall of the horn. You feel you’ve won—at least until the rest of the Nightwings, offended thusly by your intrusion into their brief respite, separate you from your newfound toy.

 

 

It is quickly decided, due to your natural inclination to pilot your blackwagon as though Yslach itself is chewing on your back bumper, that someone else is to take upon themselves the burden of warning other crafts of your approach. And though none of your fellow exiles are quite so exuberant about the horn’s operation as you are, there is a marked decrease in airborne collisions, for which everyone seems to be thankful.

You’re still a fair hand at clashing bumpers with the Dissidents, of course, but at least the Fate is spared further airborne insult at your hands, with your horn’s mighty wheeze to warn them civilly of your approach.

Hedwyn is at the helm with you when you spy the Chastity’s aircraft gliding smoothly along the horizon; his gaze darkens, uncharacteristic of his usual softness, until he catches you staring.

“Ah. Pardon, my friend. It’s only that there’s no love lost between us, not when he would so casually threaten the people I care for.”

You think back to when you last butted heads with Manley Tinderstauf, when he warned you to let him prevail in the Rite, lest some misery befall those you care about most. 

“I know fair well not to take what he says as anything more than petty bullying, but… “ Hedwyn shrugs, resigned. “I suppose I’ve heard enough threats that I’ve little mercy left for those who make them.”

You eye the ship on the horizon, and then before Hedwyn can even begin to fathom your reasoning, you push ahead full speed—swerving only inches away from a full collision to scrape sides with the Chastity’s brightly-painted wagon.

It’s not much, but it is remarkably satisfying.

There’s a ruckus from inside, the sound of bluster and hot air, and then Manley himself leans out of the wagon’s window. You can see, even from this distance, that his yellowed teeth are clenched tight as he spews niceties through them.

“Why, if it isn’t my good friends, the Nightwings! Fancy meeting you here! Now, it seems you’ve done some damage to my beautiful ship, but rest assured, repairs will be easy enough, and all will be forgiven, for we’re all friends here. All I ask is that you allow us to—“

You’re about to roll your eyes when Hedwyn tugs on the handle leading into the rafters, your blackwagon’s trodden-goose squall turning the end of Manley’s sentence into an unheard sputter.

Never one to be dissuaded from talking for long, Manley huffs, straightens his cravat imperiously and opens his mouth again.

And again, Hedwyn pulls on the horn, harder than before. A louder honking complaint drowns the Sap out anew; you can see irritation written in bark-wrinkles on his face, and you shoot Hedwyn a look, amused.

“I know it’s rude,” he protests, holding his hands up as if to surrender to your unspoken point. “I know. But if I must listen to him again, I’d like it to be on my terms.”

You realize, after a moment, that your blackwagon’s midair pause and the sound of its horn have drawn an audience; most of your fellow exiles have gathered to see what in the Scribes’ names is going on. Jodariel in particular pushes her way to where the two of you stand, assuming position just behind Hedwyn as if prepared to tear the heads off of anyone who might even consider harming him.

Manley, having found his conversational footing again, clears his throat.

“As I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted by what I’m certain was an accident, a mere drive-imp scampering about the rafters and fiddling with things it shouldn’t—“

You can feel yourself quickly losing patience with his bludgeoning eloquence.

“—I am an agreeable fellow, my dear Nightwings, and thus I am more than content to write off the damage as nothing more than the carelessness that may proceed from the grandeur of free flight, if you in turn would be willing to yield to me on our next starlit meeting—“

Jodariel, with a displeased noise, nudges Hedwyn aside and sounds the horn with one sharp yank. 

The sound it produces at her hands is unholy—a sonorous bellow starkly different from the usual squawk, resonating deep and terrible over the churning waters of the Sea of Solis, going on and on as she wields her considerable weight against the mechanism.

And H. Manley Tinderstauf, head of the Chastity, falls blessedly silent.

“So nice seeing you, Tinderstauf sir, but I’m afraid we must be on our way!” Hedwyn says, waving falsely bright from the window, though you’re certain Manley can’t actually hear him over the sound of your blackwagon’s warning cry. “Reader, my friend, please take us onward.”

You oblige, directing your craft away from the silent Sap, and breathe a sigh of relief when Jodariel lets go and the bellowing horn finally wheezes itself into silence.

“Jodi,” Hedwyn begins; the corners of his eyes crinkle despite his best attempts not to laugh outright. “That was hardly necessary, but I thank you for it nonetheless.”

“I did little more than put a stopper in his incessant bluster.” She seems pleased, though, as much as Jodariel ever seems pleased; a hint of a smile pulls at one corner of her mouth. “And I will do as much again, should it become necessary.”

Rukey sits himself at her feet, eyeing the horn mechanism. “You know, I didn’t much like the thing at first, but if that’s what we’re using it for, I want a turn.”


End file.
